


Obliterating Horizons

by CorneliaGrey



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pining, Watson gets married, holmes doesn't handle it well, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24253852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorneliaGrey/pseuds/CorneliaGrey
Summary: That night, Holmes goes fighting. He almost kills a man, and he’s not even trying.
Relationships: Mary Morstan & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	Obliterating Horizons

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal as Lagolindari (2010)

Sherlock Holmes hadn’t been in a church for a fairly long time – not to attend a function, anyway.  
  
The warm, tentatively luminous morning of Watson’s wedding, Holmes is there. He has to be: he is the best man, after all, and the best man cannot be absent. He tries to avoid thinking of the cruel irony of his position—indeed, wasn’t he the fool, he would probably admire the sheer, _perfect_ cruelness of the situation—tries not to notice the minute details of Watson’s face, the subtle variations of his expression, his posture. He tries not to look, so that he shall not be able to deduce the emotions—God damn it, the _joy—_ which seems to bloody glow on Watson’s habitually impassive features. He tries not to _look_ because he is not quite sure whether it is such happiness which would upset him the most, or the slight tension at the corner of Watson’s bottom lip—the soft shadow that seems to glaze his clear eyes as he forces himself not to glance to his side, where Holmes stands stiff.

For once in his lifetime, Sherlock Holmes would rather not _know_.  
  
Holmes tries not to think at all, not to register what is being said—he tries to lose track of the ceremony so he will not be tempted to answer the minister when he inquires whether anyone has objections in regard to the wedding. He has several, and very fine ones: he sees Watson’s hand clench on his walking stick—snakewood, perfectly polished—and almost convinces himself he would be right to speak up. Yet he cannot: he _will_ not. He will not cause embarrassment to his fellow in such a situation, in front of that many people: he is not that man.  
  
So he lets his gaze wander aimlessly on the crowd gathered in the tiny church, amusing himself by spotting all the fake gems he can—he counts twenty-three, and he’s not even _trying_. Then, he traces a diagram of all the flowers arranged on benches and walls and in pretty glass vases, superimposes the position of all curtains and drapes and calculates which would be the quickest way to set them all on fire with one of the candles alight on the altar.  
  
When he hands Watson the ring, he is very careful not to look at his face. Their fingers brush—Watson’s skin is dry and warm, and his hand is unsteady—Holmes tries not to notice. Tries not to _think_.  
  
When Watson and Mary share the sealing kiss, Holmes is intent on calculating how long it would take him to swim to France, given the current was in his favour. He has heard Normandy is beautiful in the late summer, when the golden of crops starts turning to rusty brown and the skies begin to fade to grey. A tinge of life, just barely left behind; colour and warmth and brightness, just narrowly missed. How very apt, he muses—then starts adding up the total of petals present in the church. He will start from the lilies, then pass onto the roses. Gladioluses for last.  
  
He compliments the bride and shakes Watson’s hand before they walk out of the church, among delighted onlookers. He is sincere, except in hiding the smile he can feel tugging at his lips, which would be indeed to sad for the present occasion. He thinks of Normandy, and fake jewellery.  
  
That night, Holmes goes fighting. He almost kills a man, and he’s not even trying.  
  


\---

  
When he walks off the ring, there are five people on the ground. A sixth is hanging from the banister; the wooden barriers are broken. The crowd is silent. They part for him like he’s Moses commanding the sea, and look at him suspended between awe and horror.  
  
There is blood on the floor, on Holmes’s fists, and on his face. None belongs to him, except perhaps that smeared on his split knuckles. One of the men is barely breathing: he will be lucky if the broken ribs do not pierce a lung. One on the men’s elbows has been shattered with such fierce precision he will be lucky to ever use that arm again. Another _will_ keep walking, and that is only because Holmes had the presence of mind to stop pressing his knee before _splintering_ the man’s spine.  
  
There was utter silence in his head as he fought. No deductions about his opponents, no calculations about fighting strategies—none of the vague, half amused, half bitter considerations that usually floated through his brain at such times. He moved; he hit; he _hurt_. His body knew what to do: his mind posed no objections, shut off to thought and, God forbid, introspection. He was precise, neat, effective. He was not hit _once_.  
  
It’s not that he took pleasure in hurting the unfortunate fellows. It is highly probable he will feel guilty about that at a later time. Beating several human beings to near death just happened to be what he needed in order to keep _sane_.  
  
He grabs a bottle of rancid wine on his way out, and gobbles down most of it before pouring the rest on his head. No one speaks to him; no one crosses his way. It’s sheer chance if he happens to grab his clothes.  
  
The silence is roaring in his ears by the time he strides through the streets; it appears the world has decided to keep especially quiet on this very day. The sky is blurred—a distant, mud-like fog heaving where the clouds ought to be, obliterating horizons and depth. The most hateful sky in London’s repertoire: shapeless, amorphous. It looks like it could suffocate a man if he dared look into it for too long a time.  
  
Emptiness thrums heavy in Holmes’s head, and seems to have saturated his immediate surroundings; it is spreading fast. The silence has gotten so loud he would worry it could deafen him—if he cared. Apparently, he does not. He tries not to think, and he is successful.  
  
The world is silent. Sherlock Holmes is not interested.


End file.
